


a million tomorrows

by anetherealmelody



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, Goodbyes, Heavy Angst, and the army doesn't come, based on "the dream smp finale" stream, punz doesn't come
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28883235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anetherealmelody/pseuds/anetherealmelody
Summary: In which Tommy's negotiations fail, and no one comes to save him and Tubbo from Dream.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 30
Kudos: 302





	a million tomorrows

**Author's Note:**

> I am late for work bc of this but i had to finish it bc i had too many feels to keep bottled up. It is therefore unedited and it may not make any sense, but alas, i do not want to get fired, lol
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> tw // heavy angst, major character death

_Goodbye_.

They’d said it, earlier. Freely, lightly. Joking, almost, because yes they knew what they were getting into heading for that mountain, but no, _no_ , it wasn’t _goodbye_. Of course it wasn’t. What a laughable idea. _Goodbye_. As if they hadn’t gotten out of every damn fight alive. As if suffering hadn’t brought them here— _healthy, living_. As if they hadn’t scraped through calamity time and time again. As if they hadn’t survived, despite everything. As if tragedy after tragedy hadn’t only strengthened their bond of friendship.

It made them scoff. It made them laugh. It was an insult, really—that, after all they’d been through, _now_ they chose to say goodbye. _Now_ they didn’t have enough faith to believe in themselves, to believe in each other. _Now_ they didn’t have enough hope to believe they’d sit on that bench again, with wind rustling falling leaves, with notes of lost music discs playing on loop in their minds, with their heads bent against each other, with sunrise creeping above the horizon.

Because that’s all they’ve ever had, isn’t it? Themselves, each other, and a million tomorrows.

It was enough.

_Goodbye_. 

So their goodbyes were light, meaningless. Tubbo paddled through the water because Tommy didn’t want to, and Tommy said _This might be goodbye_ , and Tubbo said _Yeah. Maybe_ , and that was the end of it. Tubbo paddled, and their shoulders were heavy with potions, with armor, but their hearts were light and their minds were at ease, because _yes_ it was going to be difficult, but it had always been difficult. The odds had always, always been stacked against them, and they had always, always come out on top. 

This was no different. They were expected to fail. They would succeed.

So he told Tubbo about a scuffed desk set up, back at his home— _their_ home—and Tubbo laughed, and they were scared, but fear had always preceded victory, so it was a good feeling. An optimistic feeling.

After all, they were scared, back in the First Great War. And then they won L’Manberg’s freedom.

After all, Tubbo was scared of Schlatt, back when he called Tubbo his right-hand man. And then Tubbo became president. 

After all, Tommy was scared of Dream, back when he watched his armor burn every day. And then Tommy escaped exile.

After all, they were scared to lose each other’s friendship, back when things had been tense, awkward. And now they’re together.

There were tragedies along the way, of course, but rose-colored glasses always lessened tragedy’s sting. So tragedy didn't matter, in the scope of things—fear was good. Fear was ordinary. 

And they were afraid, paddling toward Dream.

But that was normal, fine, okay, so their goodbyes were light, casual, meaningless. 

_This might be goodbye_.

Tubbo shrugs. _Yeah. Maybe_. 

Nothing more. 

They would get out of this. It was inevitable. They were together, finally, and they were invincible. 

Tommy and Tubbo.

That is how it always had been. That is how it always would be, until the sun died or the ocean flooded or the the world burned.

_Goodbye_.

///

“Say goodbye,” Dream says.

_Goodbye_.

Tommy scoffs. “What?”

“Goodbye,” Dream repeats, and slams Tubbo down to his knees. His grip on Tubbo’s collar does not slacken. “Unless you don’t want to?”

Tubbo coughs. Blood splutters from his mouth onto the ground, glinting on the black floor like a cruel sunrise against the shadows of the night. 

“Please,” Tubbo rasps weakly, daring to glance up to Dream’s face. “Please.”

“Please _what?”_ Dream says, and his laugh rings in the utter silence. “I owe you _nothing_. This is _mercy_ , Tubbo. Letting you say goodbye is—”

Tommy takes a step toward them, and his words cut abruptly off. Dream whips his sword above Tubbo’s head.

Tommy freezes, eyes wide, face pale as the newest snowflake.

“I don’t understand,” Tommy says. “What do you—” He laughs a ghost of a laugh, the kind of laugh that derives in incredulity and dissolve into raw terror. “What do you mean _goodbye?”_

“Say goodbye, or don’t,” Dream says. “It makes no difference to me.”

The laugh escapes his chest again. “You don’t—no.” He shakes his head. “No, no, no—”

Dream move the blade to Tubbo’s neck. Tubbo whimpers, squeezes his eyes shut.

Tommy stares.

“Please,” Tubbo whispers, and his voice wouldn’t be audible if the room wasn’t dead silent. “Let me talk to him.”

“It’s Tommy’s choice,” Dream says. “It’s always been Tommy’s choice.”

“Dream, you can’t—you can’t _kill_ him. You can’t—”

Dream pushes the blade into Tubbo’s skin. 

Blood trickles down his neck.

“ _Stop!”_ Tommy screams, scrambling forward. Dream looks up. “ _Stop!_ Just— _stop.”_

Dream does. 

Tommy stares at Tubbo’s neck, horrified.

“You have three minutes,” Dream says. “I’ll give you this mercy.”

Tommy’s nostrils flare. His eyes glint red, like a cruel sunrise against a midnight sky, like spatters of blood against an inky floor. He spins toward Dream and shoves him in the chest. 

“You _monster!”_ he screams, and he is breaking, breaking, broken, and he can’t see for the red in his eyes, for the hatred in his heart, and he can’t speak for the flood of tears rising in waves through his chest, into his eyes, and Dream doesn’t fight back, just laughs _, laughs,_ like Schlatt, like Wilbur, like Techno, but that was then and this is now, and this is _Tubbo_ , and—“You _monster!_ You won’t _kill_ him—it’s—you _can’t_ kill him. _I won’t let you.”_

Dream laughs harder. “Oh? You’ll stop me?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Tommy says, because it’s easier—so, so much easier—than acknowledging the truth: _no, no, of course not, I’ve never had a chance, no one’s ever had a chance, you played me all along, you played everyone all along_ —“I—I _challenge_ you. I’ll fight you, and if I die, you let Tubbo go, and—”

Dream throws his head back laughing. 

“Tommy,” Tubbo whispers, and gently touches Tommy’s hand. “Tommy. We have no choice.”

“What are you—” He spins toward Tubbo, scowling. “Of _course_ we have a choice. We _always—”_

Tears have paved tracks through the crusted blood on Tubbo’s face. He moves his hand up to Tommy’s arm, and says, even quieter, “This is checkmate.”

And Tommy wants to laugh. Tommy wants to laugh so, so hard, because it’s such a _Tubbo_ thing to say. _Checkmate_ , like their life is a _game_ , like it’ll all be okay, like one loss will hurt their pride, but not define their future. Like they can pick up the pieces and start over, try again, like they can reset the match and reset their destinies, like they can haul the board off the table and move it to a different room, to a different plane, to a different world.

Like this isn’t _life or death_.

Like this isn’t…

Like this isn’t _goodbye_.

His manic fit of laughter slices off. 

He stares.

“Three minutes,” Dream says, but neither of them hear him.

Tubbo swallows, raises his chin. Silent tears run down his cheeks. He puts his hands on either side of Tommy’s face. “You’re going to be _okay_ ,” he whispers. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.” He huffs, smiling wistfully, mournfully, tearfully. “You’re stronger than I’ve ever been by _triple,_ and—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Tommy snaps, pushing Tubbo’s hands away, shaking his head, because it’s too _much—too much_ —a world without Tubbo is—is— _no_. It’s inconceivable. It’s—it’s _laughable_. It’s not _real_. It’s ridiculous; it’s impossible; it’s—

“ _Tommy_ ,” Tubbo whispers, securing Tommy’s face once again. 

And he was _lying_ , wasn’t he? He was _lying,_ because Tommy can see the terror in his eyes, can see the grief etched across the expression he’s come to read better than his own, but here he stands, comforting _Tommy_ , the one he claims is strong, the one he claims has always been stronger.

What a lie. What a—what a _lie._ What an absolute _joke_.

As if Tommy wouldn’t _die_ without Tubbo. As if he wouldn’t have already been dead without him. As if he could wake up in a world without him. As if he could glimpse the sunrise or hear a note of music and not—not—not _shatter—_ as if he could ever laugh at anything but his stupid jokes and terrible reading; as if he could _live_ , as if he could go _on_ , as if he could ever _breathe again_ —

“Tommy,” Tubbo whispers, and his voice breaks. “Tommy. Please don’t cry, Tommy.”

He realizes, now. The sobs ripping through the air are his own.

Tubbo ducks his head to meet his eyes “Look at me, Tommy."

Tommy does. There is blood—so, so much blood—and there is sweat, and there are tears, and there are years and years and almost two decades of _memories_ , of _laughs_ , of _sunrises_ and _tomorrows_ and everything that is good and true and real and perfect about the world, because this is _Tubbo_ , and he is too perfect, too _perfect,_ and he is so, so much stronger than Tommy has ever, could ever be, and Tommy can’t live without him, _can’t_ —

“It should be me,” Tommy says, and the sobs make his words incoherent, but Tubbo understands, because he always does.

Because he is Tubbo, and he is Tommy, and they are Tommy and Tubbo, and that’s what they _do_.

They understand each other. They always—they always make it back to each other. There are a million tomorrows left, so this can’t be it, this isn’t real, _this isn’t real this isn’t real—_

_“_ You’re going to be all right,” Tubbo whispers, and brings their foreheads together. “Ender, Tommy, you’re going to be all right. You’re going to do _amazing_ things, because you always do.”

“I ca—can’t— _can’t—_ Tubbo—”

“Of course you can. Look at me, Tommy.”

Through a veil of blood and tears and abject horror, Tommy does.

Tubbo smiles at him.

“You’re so, _so_ strong,” he whispers. “Just be strong one more time, yeah? For me.”

The grief overwhelms Tommy. He collapses.

Tubbo catches him, because they catch each other. It’s what they do. It’s what they’ve always done. It’s what they’ll do forever. 

Except not forever, because Dream is walking toward them, and he’s holding an axe in one hand and a crossbow in the other, and he’s laughing, and Tubbo is still whispering to him but Tommy can’t hear anything over his own sobs, over his own screams, and he clutches Tubbo to him like a lifeline, because that’s exactly what he is—a lifeline, _lifeline_ — _everything, everything_ —

“Get up, Tommy,” Dream says, but Tommy’s underwater—miles away, worlds away, years away: sitting with Tubbo in the old treehouse, laughing at Tubbo’s outfit choice, watching Tubbo blow out five candles, six candles, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen candles, _sixteen_ candles—

“Pl— _please_ ,” Tommy manages. “ _Please_. I’ll do _an—anything._ Don’t—don’t _leave me,_ Tubbo. I can’t— _can’t—”_

“Of course you can,” Tubbo says, clutching Tommy’s head to his chest. “You're my best friend. I love you so much, Tommy, and you’ll be just—”

He cuts off, groaning, imploding, collapsing into himself. 

He goes limp in Tommy’s grip.

Tommy screams.

The weight of the world sits on the top of Tommy’s head, but he was always willing to carry the weight of the world for Tubbo—anything, _anything_ for Tubbo—so he lifts his gaze.

An arrow sitcks out of Tubbo’s back. 

Tommy screams. 

He doesn’t know what he says, who he says it to, but he screams, _screams_ — _this isn’t real this isn’t real come back you’re a monster this isn’t real tubbo tubbo this isn’t real you aren’t gone you are here wake up wake up tubbo this isn’t real—screams,_ and he can’t breathe, and he’ll never breathe again, and—

_Goodbye_. 

He didn’t even say goodbye. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading <3
> 
> If you liked it please consider leaving a comment! They mean the world.


End file.
